Unlucky numbers
by Swiper. No swiping
Summary: Most of the time, you don't win.
1. 1

I can only picture it in my head because I wasn't there, so I can't say for certain if this is what happened. But this is what I picture when I think about it: Cars stopped on the bridge high above the river, ex-drivers and passengers now looking off the sides at the coast guard boat passing underneath; its searchlight is trained on a body, floating face down. The bright light reveals three holes that have been systematically burned into its back. At the request of the police shouting from the snow-covered riverbanks, the boat casts a net around the corpse and begins to haul it in, deftly trying to avoid broken sheets of ice that float out towards the sea.

It's not the body's appearance that's particularly interesting. Another one floated up here, not too much before this one. It's who the body used to belong to that makes this so fun for everyone.

In my head, it's one of the fishermen—wearing those arm-length rubber gloves they're so famous for—who flips the corpse over, some cop-type giving orders but afraid to get her or his shoes dirty. They find what they're looking for: waterlogged grey fur, a wolf, typical eyepatch missing. A fourth hole, this one much less fresh, though. But all the more important.

I didn't hear it because I wasn't there. But I'm sure there was a lot of congratulatory words said at the time. I bet there are decrees, celebrations—maybe even a bank holiday in the works as I talk.

I think they were also expecting to find my body, too. But they didn't. Not yet.


	2. 2

It didn't matter when it was, or how long ago. There was no sense in keeping time unless we had a certain amount to sell a certain amount of product. I was wrapped in three tattered coats and still freezing, the clouds of vapor coming from my mouth getting fainter and fainter each time.

Wolf ripped off all our winter clothes from a clothing donation bin at some church. For obvious reasons, we couldn't exactly go asking for charity. It was just really starting to get cold, then. There were already piles of dirty snow sprinkled around the lot. He tore into the bin with a crowbar and grabbed what he could.

The coats helped me, if only briefly. The longer I was outside in the cold, the worse off I'd get.

Standing in a light-soaked parking lot seemed counterintuitive when all we were trying to do was hide. But that's where we had to meet him—an extraordinarily tall rat, bulky. Likely done some prison time. Nice car, kept it running. When I saw him, I'd keep one hand on the blaster in my pocket on instinct. Think about where to shoot him in the leg to immobilize him, etc. I would do that with anyone: assess for weak points. It was habitual.

I never learned his name but that was the point. Wolf did most of the talking, as always. He kept his eyes hidden behind shades, even at night.

"Sunglasses at night, huh," the rat said.

"You got the stuff or not, pipsqueak?" Wolf kept his arms folded.

"Jeez," the rat scratched at his muzzle nervously. "Relax, brother. I got the stuff. Come over here and pick it up."

"Nah, bring it here," Wolf demanded.

There came an audible sigh and a visible eye-roll from the other party. Then, he opened the back door of his car and fished out a sizable saran-wrapped cube from underneath his seat. Bright red, just like it was supposed to be. He started walking towards Wolf, but about halfway there Wolf stopped him.

"You want me to get my scale out of my trunk? I can weigh it for you if you want," he offered.

"No," Wolf half-growled. "Put it down. And don't come any closer. Go back to your car."

"I don't know how much I like doing business with people who make demands of me," the rat complained, but he set the package down anyway. Then began to walk backward towards his car, never showing his back. It made sense.

Wolf kneeled by the cube, before fishing a box opener out of his pocket and making a small incision in the plastic wrap. The cube itself was made up of smaller parcels: each one a kilo, likely. He tore one part of a parcel open, placed a little bit of the bright red powder in the space between his thumb and index finger before lifting it up to his nostril, snorting it.

"Hoo-ee," was his review.

"Yeah, it's the right stuff, brother," the rat said, before chuckling. "Not cut with anything. Scout's honor."

"Our last guy said you were the right person to talk to. Sure smells like it," Wolf says. "This will make us all a pretty penny."

"About that," the rat grimaced in the darkness, some kind of inscrutably complex emotion. "Here's the details, brother. You got a week to come up with some money for that stuff. That much there, that'll be two big ones. You get me?"

"Damn, two thousand?" in disbelief. "What am I going to make off this: maybe two hundred bucks after all's said and done?"

"Hey, man, that's my price," the rat tapped his foot on the asphalt. "Take it or—well, you don't exactly have a choice now that you've had some, do ya? You know my price. You got my stuff. You'll come through. One way or another."

"And how the fuck am I supposed to move all this in a week?"

"Who said you had to move all of it?" the rat raised an eyebrow. "Don't try and do that, now; push that much in a week and you'll definitely sell to a narc. You sure you're up to swimming in the deep end of the pool?"

"Motherfucker," Wolf spat on the ground. "I was swimming in the deep end while you were still in water wings."

"That's the spirit," the rat sighed. Again, some mixed emotion. "You got a week. Two large. Meet me back here. We've already talked too much." Then he got in the car and took off.

All got quiet, except for the hum of the street lights. "Y'know, part of me thought he'd peel out of here," Wolf muttered—to me or to the air around him, for his benefit. "I used to do shit like that. Some kind display thing. I dunno."

I was trying to say his name. "Whu—"

"Damn punks think they know this business works," he said while he picked up the brick and turned around to face me. "Two thousand—holy shit, Leon; you're turning bright fucking orange."

"Hwo—" I was saying. "He—"

"I got you, I got you," he said, wrapping his arms around me. "Just hold on a minute."

"N—," but he did get me. He had me. Hiding in plain sight on the top floor of a parking garage with a good few kilos of drugs held between us. He kept my face buried in his armpit, rubbed his other arm up and down my back. Soon my breathing and heartbeat started normalizing. Feeling began to return to my face. The saran-wrapped brick pressed against my stomach. His clothing smelled like body odor, cigarettes. No, it was stained with something from a previous owner; something to get rid of the smell of other people. It was ectoplasm. No, maybe it was turpentine.


End file.
